Not This Time
by RainbowBetty
Summary: Tag to 8x14, Trial and Error. It wasn't the first time Sam had watched a Hell hound attack his brother. But this time, he could do something about it.


Dean was the first to break the silence in that moment after they both lay battered and breathless on the floor of the barn, their gazes locked and filled with a silent exchange of words and the echo of promises that shouldn't have been asked, even if there had been a chance of keeping them.

(You stupid, _stupid_ son of a bitch. Why can't you ever just do what I tell you? Why can't you ever let me keep you _safe?)_

(There was never any choice. Not when I heard it coming for you. Not when I had the chance to stop it. Not this time.)

Sam wasn't the same person he'd been then. No longer trying to prove his own worth to Dean, to himself. He'd given up looking for larger answers and trying to make sense of the darkness. He wasn't running from the truth of his own destiny or putting his faith and his trust where it didn't belong. He knew who he was.

And he wasn't pinned to a wall, powerless. Not this time.

He was the man holding the gun.

When he took that shot, he took back the part of himself that had died that night along with his brother.

He took back the helplessness that held him there, unable to do anything but scream in outrage and fear when Dean screamed in pain. He took back falling to his knees in Dean's blood and took back the lifeless stare in Dean's eyes. Took back those minutes of despair, the hours of tearful denial that followed, and all the months of doubt and desperation and betrayal.

_I'm still the same person, Dean._ He'd said that. And meant it. _But I'm not that man anymore, and you see that now. I know you see that, too._

Dean was the first to break the silence. He clamped his hand over the bleeding wound in his side and said, "Sam... you hurt?"

Sam would have laughed if it wasn't so typical. Dean could be missing a limb and would still try and treat Sam for a skinned knee. He shook his head, but then he realized Dean wasn't looking at him. He was leaning back against the floor of the barn, his eyes creased with pain and his breath hitching on every inhale. So Sam said aloud, "No, I'm good. You?"

He knew Dean was hurt. He'd seen the thing take a swipe at him and fling him against the wall, and he'd heard Dean cry out. And every moment of that night had come rushing back at him.

But this time was different. This time, he could see it. He could fight it. He could _do something_ to stop it. Nothing was taking his brother from him now. Not this time.

Dean winced and pulled his hand away, red with his own blood. "Could be better," he admitted.

Sam rolled to his feet, leaving the knife beside the dead Hell hound, and came over. "Let's see."

"Dude, you're filthy," Dean said, drawing back in mock horror. "And you reek."

"Nice. Thanks." Sam wiped the palms of his hands off on a comparatively clean spot on the back of his jeans and then reached down to help Dean to his feet.

"And I thought they smelled bad _on the outside," _ he quipped, shooting Sam a mischievous grin as he struggled to stand.

"Oh, you're funny. Lean on me, okay?"

"Oh god, no. You're disgusting. No, I'm fine, Sam, really." Dean gently pushed Sam's hands back and stood on his own, hunched over and breathing carefully, but determined to go it alone.

"Okay." Sam didn't move. He nodded his head toward the other end of the barn. "The kit's in the room, come on."

"You don't have to-"

_"Dean."_ He took hold of Dean's arm, and Dean stopped, tilting his head up at him impatiently. "What are you trying to prove?" he asked, dropping his voice. The sudden change in tone made Dean's expression soften.

"Not trying to prove anything," he muttered. "It's just not your job to..."

"To what? _Take care_ of you? Whose job is it, then?"

Dean looked like he might have considered saying something sarcastic but couldn't find the right words, so he shrugged and gave a half-hearted smirk, avoiding Sam's eyes. "Nobody's," he said simply. "Taking care of you. That's _my _job."

"I'm not ten anymore, Dean. You think everything's on you, but it's not. Honest, it's not."

Dean shifted. "What are we... what exactly are we talking about, here?"

"Come on." Sam eased his arm forward and guided him toward the house. "That needs stitches. Are you gonna fight me on this too?"

Dean gave in finally, exhaling and letting a fraction of the stored-up tension begin to leave him, instinctively relaxing under Sam's touch. Something safe and familiar and unguarded and _theirs._

"No, I guess not." Dean smiled ruefully. "Not this time."


End file.
